


The Lake House

by sam80853



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-23
Updated: 2011-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-18 14:03:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sam80853/pseuds/sam80853
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is moving into a house on a lake receiving a letter from its former tenant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lake House

The sleek black car was waiting for Sherlock to take him back to London; Sherlock could hardly wait to finally leave. He was taking his time nonetheless. Just to annoy Mycroft.

No doubt his brother was watching him roaming the house, impatiently. Nothing was really private in this house. A house of glass.

Sherlock snorted - Mycroft had always been an inventive sod but this -- this was his biggest coup. So far.

Six months, eight days and three hours - give or take - earlier Mycroft had taken Sherlock and placed him here. For his own good. Or so he had said.  
Six months, eight days and three hours to become clean, and stay that way.  
Six months, eight days and three hours of constant surveillance in a house that didn't offer any hideouts whatsoever.  
Six months, eight days and three hours of boredom after the agony of withdrawal, only interrupted by the challenge of staying clean and the case files Mycroft allowed Lestrade to drop off on his doorstep

Sherlock took a final look before he turned around and shut the door behind him. He dropped a letter in the post box outside before he joined his brother who looked at him questioningly, one eyebrow raised.

"Piss off." Sherlock said.

"Always so very articulate," Mycroft smiled in spite of Sherlock's hard tone. "Very childish, Sherlock."

No further word was spoken between the brothers.

~::~::~::~

John emerged from Mike's car, taking in the sight of his new home: a huge house on the lake with a tree as part of its structure. A house completely made of glass.

Stunningly beautiful, John thought. And isolated. Nobody would hear him scream in his dreams here.

"You certain that you don't want to sell it?" John asked his friend who was leaning against his car, watching John.

"Quite sure," Mike answered. "Nobody wants to buy it anyway. Or live in it for that matter."

"It's the glass, isn't it?" John asked, slowly stepping onto the porch, leaning heavily on his cane.

"Partly, I guess," Mike followed John, opening the door for him. "Could also be all that talk about a psychopath who used to live here a few years back."

John looked at Mike, cocking his head enquiringly.

"Was before I came here," Mike explained. "If you believe the gossip this guy was brought here by who-knows-who. He stayed a few months before he was carried off somewhere else. You know how people are."

John nodded. He certainly did. That was why he came here after all; he couldn't stay in London. Not yet anyway. As broken as he was.

"You want to come in?" John asked but Mike shook his head.

"Got to get back to the hospital," he said, stepping back to his car and taking a heavy duffel bag from its trunk. "I will pick you up at seven tomorrow."

"Thanks," John said and watched Mike go before he limped back and picked up his bag.

John was glad that Mike hadn’t attempted to carry it for him. He was still able to look after himself after all. It wasn't easy, though. One hand on the cane and a heavy duffel bag over his shoulder.

On his way back to the house John passed his post box - American style, red flag and everything - and out of curiosity he opened it to find a letter. A smile crossed his face as he took the letter and limped inside.

 _To you unfortunate sod who chooses to live here…_

John had chosen a room as his bedroom, had unpacked and made a cup of tea before he had sat down in the living room to open the letter he had found.

He was quite amused by the opening words.

 _There is a bug detector in the kitchen drawer to the left of the sink that might come in handy to detect any surveillance equipment left in the house. You may use it before you settle in. If I were you I wouldn't put too much faith in the goons who were hired to clean up after I left._

 _SH, psychopath_

John had started frowning halfway through the letter - what the…? He read it again and stood up with a heavy sigh, walking into the kitchen.

Of course there was no such thing as a bug detector in the left kitchen drawer. Or anywhere else in the kitchen, for that matter. John checked. The guy must have had a strange sense of humour.

~::~::~::~

Sherlock was standing at his living room window as a police car approached, revealing Lestrade a second after the car had stopped in front of 221B Baker Street.

There must have been a fourth victim, Sherlock thought, and something must have been different this time. He listened to Lestrade's heavy footsteps on the stairs before turning toward the door in time for Lestrade's approach.

"Where?" Sherlock asked before Lestrade could say anything.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens," Lestrade answered.

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never left notes?"

"Yeah."

"This one did. Will you come?" Lestrade asked with a note of despair in his voice. The public must be pressuring him to solve these so-called suicides.

"Not in a police car. I will be right behind." Sherlock said, feigning shyness. He wasn't just someone to emerge from a police car like any other detective, or a common criminal, come to that. He was a consulting detective after all, the only one in the world.

"Thank you," Lestrade said and left, leaving a giddy-feeling Sherlock behind.

A satisfied grin spread across Sherlock's face as soon as Lestrade had left.

"Brilliant," he muttered and did a little jump. "Four serial suicides and now a note. Ah, this is Christmas."

God, he loved serial killers.

Sherlock reached for his coat and tools before waltzing out the door.

~::~::~::~

The crime scene was an abandoned house, top floor.

Sherlock didn't bother putting on an overall, he just slipped on a pair of gloves and approached their newest victim.  
A woman, which, of course, wasn't essential. Essential was what was missing.

"Oh, she's going to be useful," Sherlock whispered, walking around her body already putting together pieces of the crime.

“Useful?” Lestrade was looking at Sherlock with disbelief in his eyes. “There is a woman lying dead and...”

“Don’t you see?” Sherlock interrupted. “He made his first mistake. She is being useful.”

“We need to find her suitcase,” Sherlock stated and off he went without paying attention to Anderson, Donovan or any other person on Lestrade’s team. They were all useless to him anyway. With their sympathy for the victim. None of that would help him solve this case so what was the point?

~::~::~::~

The case turned out to be more puzzling than most. Sherlock liked a challenge but still he felt unsettled enough to take a cab to the house on the lake. He wasn't even quite sure why he had chosen to come to this godforsaken house. He had hated living there. But still, he hoped that something about the house would help him to see the bigger picture of this puzzling case.

He stepped from the car and took a deep breath, feeling calmer already. It was silly to come here, Sherlock berated himself. A hot cup of tea made by Mrs. Hudson would have been more reasonable.

Sherlock was about to step back into the cab when his gaze fell on the post box. He hesitated and approached it.

A letter was sitting inside.

Sherlock looked at the house, letter in hand. Nobody seemed to live here now. Probably had been empty since he had left. People were like that. Easily spooked by rumours of a madman, as though insanity was catching.

 _Dear former tenant,_

 _Thank you for warning me about the surveillance equipment. Those ‘goons’ must have been more meticulous than you gave them credit for. I wasn’t able to find any bugs. Mind you, I didn’t find your bug detector either. So there you go..._

 _JW, doctor_

~::~::~::~

John had started settling in to his new life. Outside the city. It wasn’t that bad, really. He quite enjoyed it. Or so he made himself believe.

Life out here wasn’t like anything John had ever known. He had spent his whole life in London where it was never quiet. Afghanistan had had a different kind of noise which he certainly didn’t miss. But he could do with some more excitement. Nothing ever really happened here. He said as much to his therapist who insisted on John keeping a blog to help him settle back into civilian life.

What was he supposed to write about?

He got up every morning, had a cup of tea and went to work. Came home after his shift was over and did the whole thing all over again come next morning.

Well, he had been seeing Sarah lately. Which was -- nice.

Perhaps he could mention that odd letter in his post box. His therapist would have a field day with that one.

 _I shall congratulate my brother for hiring semi-competent personnel then. Perhaps you’re not observant enough to detect those bugs, though.  
Oh, come on, don’t be offended. People rarely are. Observant that is. You would be surprised what people miss on a daily basis. Maybe not._

 _People are idiots!_

 _SH_

~::~::~::~

 _I’m not even going to ask why your brother of all people had you under surveillance. You are known here as the ‘madman’ after all.  
I find our conversations quite normal, though. Perhaps I shall talk about you with my therapist. She would probably advise me to stay away from you. A troubled former soldier and a psychopath are hardly a good mix._

 _JW_

~::~::~::~

Sherlock was looking in annoyance at the piece of paper in front of him when Mycroft entered. He chose to ignore him, concentrating on the case at hand. Which was a man by the initials of JW. Quite puzzling this one.

Sherlock had spent some time investigating the history of the house on the lake. It had been empty for a few years after he had left. Then, in 2008, a doctor called John Watson had moved in. Said doctor‘s whereabouts today were unknown – Sherlock might have to get Mycroft involved. Better not, he decided. John Watson could hardly be the one writing the letters, could he?

Writing, Sherlock snorted. He preferred to text. Or e-mail. Nobody wrote letters these days anymore. Except JW, and Sherlock himself, apparently.

“I can’t.” Sherlock said without looking at his brother who had sat down on his sofa.

“You can’t?” Mycroft asked, obviously disbelieving Sherlock.

“I can’t spare the time.” Sherlock clarified, still looking at the letter on his desk.

“Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance.” Mycroft insisted, pulling out a case file.

“How is the diet?” Sherlock mocked, ignoring the file Mycroft was holding out to him now.

“Fine.”

“If you’re so keen why don’t you investigate it?”

“No. No. No. I can’t possibly be away from the office for any length of time. Not with a career and an election... Well, you don’t need to know about that, do you?” Mycroft said. “Besides a case like this requires -- legwork.” He pronounced the last word like something severely distasteful and dropped the file case on top of Sherlock’s letter. “Don’t make me order you.”  
“I’d like to see you try.” Sherlock said, watching his brother leave.

~::~::~::~

 _Sherlock Holmes.  
I’m a consulting detective. The only one in the world; I invented the job. Just to clarify the sentence since you’re clearly not getting the meaning of it: the police turn to me when they’re out of their depth, which they always are.  
If you are ever in need of my professional services, visit 221B Baker Street in London or text me. My number is on my website._

 _SH  
September 2010_

John frowned, looking at the letter in his hand. 2010? What was that supposed to mean? How…? He reached for his laptop, opening a search engine and typing: Sherlock Holmes.

The search engine turned up no results.

That guy was pulling his leg, clearly.

~::~::~::~

 _Very funny, Sherlock Holmes. If that’s even your real name. Who put you up to this?  
I tried to look you up on the Internet - nothing. I even went all the way to London but the elderly couple living at 221B Baker Street has never heard of you. By the way, since you’re a brilliant detective and all that, you should look into your ‘landlady’s’ husband’s life. He seemed like a rather unpleasant, if not violent fella._

 _John  
September 2008_

Sherlock’s eyebrow shot up - 2008? This was impossible.

~::~::~::~

 _Dear John,  
Mrs Hudson’s - my landlady at 221B Baker Street - husband is dead. He was executed in Florida last year; I ensured it.  
I’m not known for playing tricks whereas I have to ask you the same question: who put you up to this?_

 _SH_

John was pacing up and down his kitchen with Sherlock’s last letter in hand. How could this be possible?  
It just wasn’t.

“John”? Sarah was knocking on his door, calling his name. It seemed she'd been out there for quite some time while John had been pondering his letter.

John went to open the door for her. He had invited her over tonight; it seemed appropriate since they had spent an awful lot of time together lately.

“Sorry, I’m early,” Sarah said, entering the house and looking around curiously.

John smiled.

“You want the tour?”

“Not quite necessary,” Sarah said. “You can see everything from the outside. How can you live here?”

~::~::~::~

 _Dear Sherlock,  
All right, I will just accept the fact that we’re living in different times. I don’t know how. Or why. But this is the most exciting thing that has happened to me in quite some time so I will take it for what it is.  
We could be pen pals if such a thing still exists these days...  
Perhaps you could share some of your cases with me - I might be useful. Or pretend to be since you’re clearly the genius in this relationship._

 _Yours,  
John_

~::~::~::~

Sherlock smirked as he read John’s words. He liked being called a genius. He was one after all.

 _Five murder-suicides, John. Five! Random victims. Nothing links them together, except the fact that they all died of the same poison. Self-inflicted at that.  
Our murderer’s hunting ground is the heart of the city. All his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places but no one saw anything. Who do we trust even if we don’t know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?_

 _I haven’t the faintest, John..._

~::~::~::~

John was basically shaking with excitement, reading Sherlock’s letter. He could feel the tension, the thirst for the final clue. Perhaps...

John read Sherlock’s lines all over again.

 _Busy streets._

 _Who do we trust even if we don’t know them?_

 _Who passes unnoticed wherever they go?_

A clatter made him jump and turn around. His cane, abandoned, had rolled off his desk and fallen to the floor.

~::~::~::~

“Sherlock, what have you done?” Mrs Hudson said to Sherlock as soon as he came in the front door.

“Mrs Hudson?”

“Upstairs,” she said with tears in her eyes.

Sherlock took the steps two at a time. He found Lestrade sitting calmly in one of Sherlock’s armchairs.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked furiously.

“I knew you found her case; I’m not stupid.” Lestrade answered, leaning even further back into his chair.

“You can’t just break into my flat.”

“You can’t withhold evidence. And I didn’t break into your flat.”

“What do you call this then?”

“It’s a drugs bust.”

Donovan emerged from Sherlock's kitchen with an expression of disgust on her face. She held up a container. “Are these human eyes?”

“Put those back!” Sherlock demanded.

“They were in the microwave.” She said.

“It’s an experiment.”

“Keep looking guys,” Lestrade called while Sherlock started pacing up and down. “Or you could start helping us properly.”

“This is childish,” Sherlock said.

“I’m dealing with a child,” Lestrade said, standing up. “Sherlock, this is our case and I’m letting you in. You do not go off on your own. Clear?”

“So you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me.”

“It stops being pretend if we find anything.” Lestrade cocked his head in question.

“I am clean!” Sherlock exclaimed, storming over to Anderson who had been going through his desk and was holding up John’s letters now.

“Secret admirer?”

“Put those down,” Sherlock said in a tone so cold it frightened even himself. “Now.”

Anderson obeyed immediately.

“Isn’t the door bell working?” Mrs Hudson came up the stairs. “Sherlock, your taxi is here.”

“I didn’t order a taxi. Go away!” He said rather harshly.

Sherlock started pacing up and down again. Something was coming to him. He couldn’t quite get a grip on it yet but it was there. In the back of his mind.

“What about your taxi?” Mrs Hudson asked again.

“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock yelled. And stopped. “Oh.”

~::~::~::~

 _A cabbie._

 _Yours,  
John_

Sherlock could have wept. Oh, John was clever. He had figured it out even before Sherlock himself did.

Extraordinary.

~::~::~::~

 _You are cleverer than most, John. We must meet._

 _SH_

A satisfied smile crossed John’s lips. He had figured out something the world’s only consulting detective hadn’t. He felt -- good.  
John’s movements were light that day. Like his feet weren’t quite touching the ground. He hadn’t used a cane in weeks and it seemed his limp only re-appeared when he hadn’t heard from Sherlock in a while.

Sherlock.

He had gotten quite obsessed with the man. Or so Sarah had said, breaking off their relationship after yet another dinner spent talking about -- Sherlock Holmes.

~::~::~::~

 _Tell me where and when._

 _Yours,  
John_

Sherlock had stopped trying to solve the mystery of John’s letters. He had come to accept that they just were - the only thing he had ever let go of in his life, really.

Perhaps he didn’t really want to know. Well, he would find out pretty soon now anyway, wouldn’t he?

Sherlock smiled and took another look at his watch. He was standing in front of Scotland Yard and John had another three-and-a-half minutes to appear.

It was cold that day and Sherlock pulled his coat closer, protecting himself against the wind. They would go to Angelo’s, Sherlock decided. They could have a proper meal. Or John could. Sherlock rarely ate.

He was a tad nervous meeting the man, though. It was quite unusual for him to be interested in another person - people were usually so dull...

Their meeting time had come and gone now -

 _October 5th, 2010  
Scotland Yard_

 _SH_

\- and Sherlock was still waiting, looking for John when his mobile phone beeped.

 _221B  
Lestrade_

~::~::~::~

Baker Street was illuminated by police cars when Sherlock arrived, first fearing for his landlady, Mrs Hudson. But she all but flew into Sherlock's arms, an orange blanket covering her shivering body.

"Oh Sherlock, that poor man," she said, pointing at a body lying in front of 221B.

Sherlock didn't take time to calm down his landlady; he just stepped out of her reach and approached the crime scene.  
Lestrade, Donavan, even Anderson were already gathered.

MALE. 5'7".  
PSYCHOSOMATIC LIMP.  
EX-MILITARY.  
SERVED IN EITHER IRAQ OR AFGHANISTAN.  
A VISITOR TO LONDON. LIVING CLOSE TO A LAKE. PROBABLY ON HIS WAY TO MEET SOMEONE IN TOWN.

"They left you a note," Lestrade pointed out unnecessarily. Sherlock had already spotted the small business card pinned to the victim's breast.

 _Loyal pets are hard to find.  
We will meet again, Sherlock._

 _M_

Sherlock's head was reeling. He didn't know the man lying dead in front of him. He was certain of it. Although the note suggested that he did. But… He didn't have enough data to process what had happened. Yet.

He needed data.

Who was the man and how did he get here?

Sherlock's glove covered hands were shaking as he searched the dead man's pockets for some sort of ID. Sherlock had to know who he was. He had to; he felt it with such urgency that he couldn't quite think straight.

"Who are you?" Sherlock whispered under his breath; his hands turning up empty.

"No ID," Lestrade just confirmed what Sherlock had already discovered. "Did you know him?"

Sherlock slowly stood; unreasonably hesitant to part from the body.

"No."

"Well, the note suggests that you do," Lestrade said. "Is there something you are not telling us?" He asked suspiciously.  
Sherlock didn't bother to answer. He just turned and walked away.

~::~::~::~

 _You didn’t come. What happened, John?_

 _SH_

“What?” John exclaimed, frowning. “What do you mean I didn’t come? How could I have not?”

John should have felt quite silly, pacing through his kitchen and talking to somebody that wasn’t there. He just couldn't --

 _You didn’t come._

John could feel Sherlock’s disappointment like the man had looked forward in meeting him as much as John had.

He couldn't believe it.

~::~::~::~

 _Dear Sherlock,  
I don't know what happened. I was looking forward meeting you; I can’t imagine what prevented me from showing up. I’m sorry.  
Let’s try again, yes?_

 _Yours,  
John_

Sherlock shook his head almost violently.

No.

He was not going to agree to another meeting. Absolutely not.

Sherlock had felt ridiculous standing in the wind waiting for John for hours after their agreed time had passed. He wouldn’t do it again. Once again it was made clear that some things weren’t worth the pain, and that was what he had felt. Pain.

He didn’t like it.

Sherlock also didn’t like that he, after all, considered looking for John. He couldn’t imagine that the man he knew from his letters would just stand him up. Not his John.

~::~::~::~

 _We have a case, John. Actually we have two but let me deal with the more complicated one...  
Two people were murdered behind locked doors. No forced entry. Of course the police think it was suicide, which is ridiculous, really. How, John, could a left-handed man shoot himself in his right temple? Impossible!  
I’ve found a cipher I haven’t been able to decode yet. Perhaps you have some bright ideas._

 _SH_

No meeting then, John thought, looking at the cipher Sherlock had attached. Just a case.

John sighed.

He must have disappointed Sherlock deeply but really, it wasn’t his fault. Or at least he hoped it wasn’t. God, this was all so confusing.

John had hardly slept during the last few days, thinking about what had gone wrong. He needed to meet Sherlock; he just did.

~::~::~::~

“Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson was calling from downstairs but Sherlock couldn’t be bothered getting up from the couch. He was still in his pyjama bottoms and dressing gown.

“Tea!” Sherlock yelled instead.

“Not your housekeeper,” Mrs Hudson answered, standing now in front of his door. “You have a guest, Sherlock.”

Sherlock only turned his head, still not getting up and looked at the woman Mrs Hudson had brought up.

“I’m not taking any cases. Go away.”

“Don’t mind his manners,” Mrs Hudson whispered. “Just go in, dear.”

The woman stepped carefully closer while Mrs Hudson went into the kitchen, preparing Sherlock’s requested - demanded - cup of tea.

“Speak!” Sherlock spat, not even looking at the woman.

“My name is Sarah,” she said and Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I was a friend of John Watson’s.”

Sarah hadn’t even finished her sentence when Sherlock was in her face, glaring at her dangerously.

Nobody knew about John. Nobody.

“Who sent you?” he demanded to know.

“A -- a man with an umbrella.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock swore. Of course his incredibly nosy brother would still have him under surveillance. “What did he promise you for taunting me?”

Suddenly the woman in front of Sherlock straightened and her eyes locked onto his. Any trace of fear or uncertainty was gone from her expression.

“I knew John Watson. And I knew about you; the famous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes.” Sarah said. “John talked about you. Often. It was quite annoying,” she smiled as if she remembered something fondly.

“Why the past tense?” Sherlock asked.

“John is dead, Sherlock. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock felt like all the air had been pulled from the room. Never in his life had Sherlock felt such despair. It had been one thing John standing him up but -- dead?

“How? When?”

“He was on his way to meet you,” Sarah said, a single tear now running down her cheek.

Oh God!

Sherlock felt panic rising; the man on his doorstep. The dead man had been -- John.

“A taxi, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock whispered. “I need a taxi. Now.” He frantically reached for pen and paper on his desk, threw off his dressing gown and pulled on his coat, and ran down the stairs, out the door.

A taxi.

He needed a taxi.

What he found was his brother, holding the car door for him.

“Get in the car, Sherlock,” Mycroft said.

~::~::~::~

 _Don’t come, John. Just -- don’t.  
Wait at the lake house; I will come to you._

 _Yours,  
Sherlock_

~::~::~::~

Mycroft drove off as soon as Sherlock had sprinted from the car to the post box. With shaking fingers he pushed his letter into the slot.

Nothing happened.

The house to Sherlock’s back was empty, unoccupied.

Sherlock leaned his head against the post box, trying to calm his racing heart.

“Come on, John,” he whispered pleadingly as suddenly a voice calling his name reached his ears.

Sherlock turned and the same man he had been seeing lying dead at his feet was standing just a few meters away.

“John,” Sherlock said, his voice shaking.

John smiled at him, stepping nearer still. “I waited,” he said matter-of-factly.

“So I see,” Sherlock tried sarcasm and failed miserably, reaching for John and pulling him impossibly closer.

“John,” he said once more before he leaned down and kissed him.

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on the movie "The Lake House" with Sandra Bullock & Keenau Reeves.  
> Written for 221b_4ever @LJ  
> Many thanks to my betas stillcentre & tehomet!


End file.
